


kitchen sink

by hearts_kun



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Everyone is Dead, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, POV First Person, Suicidal Ideation (a bit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_kun/pseuds/hearts_kun
Summary: Targeting Masayoshi Shido isa mistake.We don't change his heart. In fact, we barely do anything before he crushes us, and— The next thing I remember is this kitchen sink, echo of water drops in my ears. Everyone except me and Futaba being dead, and Shido becoming a prime minister.My heart beats louder. I disconnect from existence.





	kitchen sink

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks [VelveteenPrince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelveteenPrince/pseuds/VelveteenPrince) for help.  
> Written in memory of my cat.

Each drop is ringing, drumming, running through my ears. My head is spinning, my mind is shaking, my hands are weak, they can’t hold a dish, they can’t open a tight tap. Cold sweat runs down my spine. My breath is hazy, my pulse is slow. There’s something crawling in my mind, scraping its claws on the back of my skull, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—

I raise my head to the sound of the doorbell. Sojiro is back from a smoke break. He glares at me, and I twitch, I glitch, I reconnect with existence. Cold reboot.

“You okay?”

I nod. I’m not. I’m almost normal; I’m nowhere near normal. The sight of a kitchen sink reminds me of my friends talking in a booth seating, laughing and smiling; cups clinking, light sounds of joy flying all over the place; stability and safety, and balance in my knees; the way I used to cook for all of us, the way they used to offer help; the sparkles in their eyes—

Kitchen sink is something you see when you’re alone. Everyone has gone home and you’re standing there, doing the dishes, whistling or mumbling, cursing them for eating so much, but then cackling, because you’d never tell them you don’t like to clean up, because it doesn’t matter, really, if you can be together, if you can be that close…

Kitchen sink is all about automatic movements; is all about your thoughts wandering away, reloading, replaying the happiest bits of today.

Kitchen sink: you look at the tap, let out a short laugh and nod to yourself. Yeah, right. They’ll come again next week, I want everything to go even more smoothly. What should I cook? Should I ask Sojiro’s advice?

I look at the tap, and I know— I look at the tap, and I know—

They’re not coming back. There’s no one left to come back. A ship is their grave; a heart unchanged — their gravestone. Prime minister Shido is giving speeches in their memory, and I am powerless, helpless, tiny in front of that invincible, crushing force that erased them from my life.

Sojiro pats my shoulder. I blink, eyelashes stick together as if glued. Oh. I realize, _Oh, the water is running. I should be doing the dishes. Right._ My hands won’t move.

“Get some rest, kid.”

“I’m fine. Just sleepy.”

“That’s exactly why I’m telling you to get some rest,” Sojiro sighs and gently pushes me away from the sink, out of the kitchen, to the stairs. “Go. No objections!”

My hands are weak. My neck is a thin rope between me and my body, and it’s getting thinner every second. Insomnia hit me hard yesterday; three cups of caffeine are shoved into my veins today. No sleep, no functioning, no nothing. Invisible sand in my eyes is burning. Memories are drilling into my temples.

I trip over the very first step. My legs are no better than my arms: none of them are working. The stairs are blurred in front of me. I blink. I imagine his little paws quickly running ahead of me. I imagine his small tail waving at the last step, and his loud but worried voice asking me to go to sleep.

Sojiro starts giving me concerned glances. I make a few small dashes towards the goal not to look so hopelessly pathetic in his eyes. He shakes his head. I know he’s only staying behind the counter and not running over to help because he knows I don’t want to see anyone now. Not even myself.

In fact, _mainly_ , myself.

A traitor.

Only traitors stay alive.

At the last step I turn, I look back, and he’s sitting there. Sipping his coffee, honey smile, black gloves, standard beige costume. Dead eyes of someone who’s known loss long before I did.

He vanishes when I blink.

Now I know: everything we ever thought to be the darkness in him was actually _nothingness_. Now I know, because the same nothingness made its home in me, and it rots, and it hurts, and it painfully grows its sprouts through my insides. It comes to me with nightmares or insomnia; comes like a ghost, an illusion, a hallucination. I see it all: I see the way I’m crumbling, the way Sojiro tries not to look me in the eyes, the way Futaba stops talking to me.

They pity me. They don’t know what to do anymore. It’s been months. I didn’t go back home.

I didn’t go back home.

I didn’t go back—

But have I ever had a home?

*

It’s past midnight when I open my eyes. The floor is rough on my back, and I feel the dizziness slowly mutating into pain, sitting in my bones. It’s dark, and Sojiro has left already. He probably thought I went to sleep and decided not to check. He could find a rotten corpse, or a body soaked in blood for all I know, but he decided not to check, and somewhere deep inside I clutch myself into a fist of non-control — and I understand him. He cares. He — really — cares. He just doesn’t care _enough_.

Downstairs, I find a plate of food, carefully covered with a plastic wrap. There’s not much: just curry leftovers and something else. Sickness dries my mouth as I push the plate away. Sojiro — cares. Sojiro — notices that I can’t eat; that I can’t sleep; that I’m not. Not here. Not really alive. Not me — not I.

A failure of ego at its glorious beginning, I think for a second; but, no, actually, a failure of a failure, otherwise I’d…

I drop myself on a bar stool and hang myself on the edge of the counter, and I grab a napkin, and I crumple it and crumple, and crumple, until it’s ugly — like me.

Why isn’t he here?

Why isn’t he telling me to sleep for my own sake? Why isn’t he waking me up to offer a workout tomorrow? Why isn’t she telling me how her visit to Shiho went? Why isn’t he asking to stay overnight and watch some artist’s biography? Why isn’t she excited about learning her peers’ interests? Why isn’t she bringing Sojiro new vegetables to try? Why isn’t he smiling at me? _Why aren’t you smiling at me?_

Futaba isn’t spying on me anymore. She’s too scared of me, she’s locked up in her room, preparing to go back to school. It doesn’t matter if we used to go to Akihabara together. The person she used to know is no longer. Only a shell that looks like her sworn brother.

I don’t blame her. I̵̡̮̱̺͐̒ ̷̛͇̺̣̼͎͙͇̂͊̋͜͠d̵̨̘̐͂̿͝ò̷̧̹̹̆̿̈́̍͊̓ñ̸͚͉̽͂̀͝͝͝'̸̹͔̳͌̉̉̒̑t̴̢͉͚͕̖͉̓͊̋͒͗͋̏ ̷̛̝͖̙̼̐͛͌͗b̶̜͚̹̖̬̳̹́̈́̐̈́̓̏ͅl̴͍̒͒͗̈́ȃ̸̧̘͎̝̔̋̆͘ͅm̴̹̩͉̗͍̟̠̼̿̒̋̓̄ë̴̩̗͓́͊̆̆ ̶̡͉̺̦̽͊̑̾ḫ̶͎͙̱͇̱͚͔͗͒̇e̷͉̺̼͓̙͙͂r̵̨̧̬͉̦͍͔̜̉̌̂̇͋. _I blame her for it._ I don’t care.

*

I wake up around four, still at the counter, and he’s there. In the dim light of morning he sits near me, faceless.

 _“You couldn’t keep your promise,”_ he says, but his lips aren’t moving, because he has no lips. I cough, trying to throw up, but I’m empty and nothing jumps to my throat, and the sickness stays, and he stays, too. _“But I forgive you.”_

He doesn’t forgive me, because he is dead.

When I open my eyes for the second time, I’m alone. I throw up bile.

*

The coffee I make is so sour that Sojiro pours it into the kitchen sink, and I look at these dark wet stains slowly crawling into the drain. At this point I think he’s angry, but I can’t read him: the fog is too strong. He tells me to leave and not come back until I’ve got ahold of myself.

 _Ah,_ I think, _now, that sure sounds angry,_ but I don’t do anything. Attic smells like a cat to me. My bed lacks his body warmth. Our plant has long withered. No one to play games with, no one to watch stupid shows with, no one to watch over me as I’m making the lockpicks. Besides, I…

“…I don’t need the lockpicks anymore.”

Sojiro can’t hear that, pointing me at the stairs. Is he tired, is he worried, or does he just hate me? I leave the kitchen, and I go the wrong way: turning to the left, out of Leblanc — and my body is embraced by warmth and humidity.

_Ah,_ I think, _I didn’t see the rain,_ but I don’t do anything. I don’t go back. I don’t get an umbrella. There isn’t a bag with him on my back to cover from rain anymore. There isn’t anyone to catch on the way to— somewhere, anywhere — and save them from getting wet.

Alone, I drown.

*

Sojiro leaves the keys under the flower pot, as usual. I lock the door after me, and I slide down the wall, breathless. The rain is still pouring, and it’s dark outside. Thunder strikes loudly, making me cover my ears.

I avoid looking at the counter. I don’t know if he’s sitting there again. I don’t know if he has a face. _I don’t want to know._

I walk to the kitchen on my hands and knees. Feels pathetic, and I laugh at myself, but my gaze doesn’t touch the counter even once, and the relief is stronger than any self-respect. There’s no one to respect myself for anyways.

There are leftovers in the fridge. I can’t quite remember whether I told Sojiro I won’t be eating anything he leaves on the counter or if I’m just lucky, but it doesn’t matter. My body feels weightless as I grab the almost empty pot. There’s some curry for me, but not too much, mostly rice. Thank gods.

 

Tears run down my face.

I only manage to eat so much, after almost two days of half-starving and sleep deprivation I can’t take more, but it still feels like I’m doing something right. Like I’m doing something they would approve of.

I know it’s a shitty way to measure your own life, I know. I know.

But tears run down my face because curry reminds me of them. The way I learnt to cook it, the way he would wave his little tail and sniff and ask endless questions. The way I would later make a pot for all of us and bring it upstairs, and we—

I choke on my tears and put the pot away, back into the fridge, and I wash my face in this kitchen sink that slowly makes me numb, and I can’t say if it’s because of the memories or cold water. Memories or cold water. I don’t know.

This is unfixable.

That, I don’t know either.

I touch my face with my fingertips, and they’re numb, and the face is numb, and I don’t feel anything. I live in an illusion, in a world that used to be and that is no longer — and I barely realize it. I can’t feel my face. I can’t feel my fingers. I can’t feel myself falling deeper and deeper.

_I am_ unfixable.

It’s not them. I am the one.

*

Futaba slams the door, running away as soon as she sees me coming downstairs, and I know the look on my face is angry and displeased, and disgusted, because that’s what she kept calling it these few times we tried to talk. This is what Sojiro described to me later. This is what I couldn’t explain to them then and wouldn’t explain now.

I swallow.

Only a glimpse of her red hair is enough to make me sick again. I look at the few visitors, carelessly listening to the TV; I don’t focus on the anchor’s voice. If it’s about the prime minister Shido, I won’t be able to breathe today.

Sojiro is behind the counter, frowning.

“I need some—”

“Coffee for you. Are you done starving now?”

I accept the so gladly offered cup and take a big gulp. Coffee burns my insides, and I don’t feel the taste, but that’s for the better. Coffee taste means _him_ , and I’m still afraid to look at the counter past midnight. Beige costume flashes before my eyes.

Sojiro reads this pause the way he pleases, “I’m gonna get you something quick and sweet, just sit down somewhere before you fall.”

I sit down, and I know he’s right, but I don’t know if he’s mad at me, or— I don’t know.

Sojiro brings me toasts and jam, and for once since the worst day in my life I feel something slightly similar to hunger. Bread, crunchy but soft inside, melts in my mouth, and warm jam makes it sweet. This is — the feeling of food inside me, filling me slowly, giving me its taste — so unfamiliar and wild, and nothing like the numbness to the food that made me hate and ignore it for days before. I eat my few toasts fast but don’t forget to chew well, afraid that the sickness will come back.

I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel full. I’m only slightly glad that this taste doesn’t make me remember. Because I never ate toasts in Tokyo. Not once.

As soon as I finish, I return to my room. To the attic. And the sickness goes with me, barely calmed down with bits of energy from my tiny breakfast and insufficient half an hour of sleep.

There the memories fill the void way too fast. I stare blankly in front of myself and whichever detail my eye catches, it always hits me as if I see it for the first time. And so I stand there for a while, not quite moving.

_I’m doing it for them_ , I think to myself, _I’m doing it, because they would want me to._

And I walk to my desk to check the drawers for something that keeps bugging my mind after a short dream today; my hands are shaking. I’m not sure what I’m going to do; I’m not sure it won’t bring even more pain and numbness — but I’m trying anyway.

Because — I know he would want me to try.

*

Scratches on my hands are the first thing I see when I wake up, and the immediate thought strikes me unable to move. I hold my breath and stare at the small red lines, dry and covered with crust, and something funny sits down my stomach, gurgling and buzzing for help. Ironic, I think, as my gaze falls further on the boxcutter, lying beside me on the floor — ironic, how all that crosses my mind now is focused on not trusting myself. I’m not surprised. Honestly, I’m not surprised. Maybe just a little bit glad it’s not what I first think it is.

I later realize the reason I didn’t understand at first is that I’ve never seen so many scratches on him. Of course, because he mostly used paint, not pencils; and even if he had to do a pencil sketch, he always knew how to sharpen it without cutting himself. My sharpening skills are far worse than that.

When my breath comes back, I closely explore a pile of paper near my other hand. It’s covered in graphite. Dark, creepy drawings. They’re mostly abstract, but nothing like what he used to create. Hectic lines; words and phrases building ornaments, being crossed out so many times that paper got torn. Hazy eyes staring off the sheets. Broken hands holding broken paper ships, sinking in oceans of graphitic ink.

They look ugly to me, inelegant, immature. Meaningless, _edgy_. They carry nothing, no thoughts, no lessons, no memories. Maybe there is something I tried to pour on the paper, brain vomit: trembling hands, tiny blood spots, itchy scratches, scattered feelings, ragged breaths. Falseness, weakness, loss. I don’t remember drawing any of those, I don’t remember passing out on the floor; I don’t know how much time has passed. There’s something— something in me that asks me to tear every sheet, crumple it, burn it, dispose.

I look through the drawings again and avert my eyes.

I don’t like this, any of it.

This was a bad idea, I think as I collect all of it carefully into a neat pile. Sharp edges cut my fingers again, and I stare at the new scratches numbly, hoping I won’t mistake them for anything else next time I wake up. I don’t feel relief. This _was_ a bad idea after all.

I put the drawings on the desk.

I don’t want to destroy them, no matter how strong the urge is. I know he wouldn’t like it that way. He was special, knowing the value of art that I don’t. Cherishing it in ways that I can’t, expressing himself through it by means I won’t reach. I remember him explaining all of this to me, and I feel pain in my chest.

They would want me to save myself, all of them. Even _him_ , occupying the counter at nights, lying to me about forgiveness, faceless, he would want it too. I know it, and I try. But there’s so little of me left without them. Almost nothing to save anymore.

I put a book on the drawings to not see them. I feel like this plan has failed. Creativity is no outlet for my grief for I’m not grieving. I’m not grieving, there’s just a part of me missing.

Seven parts, in fact, and maybe eight.

*

I try to talk to her once more. Sojiro treats me like a danger, like a criminal, like a cornered animal that needs help, but even more — control. He lets me in, though. I don’t blame him. I feel like he cares less every day, like he thinks of kicking me out, but I don’t blame him. I think, maybe, maybe I deserve this. For spacing out. For being no help in the kitchen. For ruining coffee. For not getting better.

So, I try to talk to her once more. Futaba. She locks herself up, she avoids me. She doesn’t see me in me. I try not to blame her either, but it hurts. She’s here and she’s alive, but I know I lost her there with them, too. I’m not getting her back. She wants to move on. She doesn’t hear paws on the stairs, doesn’t see cat tails behind the corners, doesn’t feel a phantom weight near her before falling asleep; doesn’t paranoidly stare at her phone waiting to be invited to watch people, to go fishing, to go shopping, to do something together. She grieves and goes on, she studies for her school. She has a life I don’t.

I knock, and she doesn’t answer. I open her door ajar, and I see her turning away from me, not wanting to see. I look away, hide behind the corner, lean to the wall. I need to talk to her, but I don’t have to see her, I just… Need it, I guess.

“I was thinking…” I say.

I don’t finish the sentence. Futaba creaks her chair, waits, then sighs deeply, irritated. She didn’t use to be like that before. Their deaths made her grow. Made her change in ways I don’t understand. She probably thinks they should’ve made me grow and change too.

“I was thinking of leaving,” I say. I know she knows I don’t mean the house, or Sojiro, or even Tokyo.

She drops something, and I hear her crawling around, trying to find whatever she dropped.

Then it becomes silent.

“Leave,” she says.

There’s a pause.

“Leave me alone,” she says.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. I don’t think I deserve this, but I’m not sure anymore.

*

It’s five in the morning when I sit at the counter, and he’s there. I look at the hole that is his face, absence of it, and I don’t hide from him anymore; I’m not crawling, not howling.

It pains to see him, and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t refuse myself anymore. Sickness rests in my throat. It’s itchy and I want to scratch it out, throw it up, but he won’t let me, staring at me with emptiness instead of a pair of hazel eyes.

I don’t see his face in dreams either. I can still remember it but it’s far, a rarely used bit of information. A small chunk of bytes that will soon be erased.

There are other things that will stay. The way he always sits on the same chair. The way he smiles, there, under the darkness. The way his gloved hands are clutching a hot cup, even if in reality there is no cup and no coffee in it. Each move, each breath, everything is carefully extracted from my memory, against my will, but so accurately. Just like I can hear a cat walking around the house, I can hear him breathe and feel him smile.

He has nothing to say this time. There’s a bag with my clothes beside my chair. As I finish my over-steeped tea, I know it’s time for me to head out. With my clothes, there’s some soap, a rope, and a boxcutter in my bag. I’m not going to use them. I decide against leaving. I stare at these things, and I decide it won’t work out.

Instead, I decide to take a break. Run away, stop seeing them.

They stare at me from the dark: screeching stairs, unanswered messages, smell of the curry leftovers. Faceless void that has his voice and his manners. Quiet meowling and purring, warmth rubbing against my leg. Empty space in the bag that he used to take.

I decide to let them fade while I’m away. Seeing my parents. Making sure there’s no home anywhere for me. Talking to my old classmates, whose names I don’t remember.

I decide to let them rest. I decide to let my mind wander away, far from Tokyo, just to be brought back here as soon as my last school year finishes. I decide that I’m not lost yet, and even if I’m just one ninth of us all, I’m still a part that lived.

They won’t disappear, I know. When I come back, they’ll still be there, at every corner, in every sound. Living, breathing, haunting me like they do now. I know they won’t go. Every millimeter of Tokyo will always be about them, filled with them.

I look at the quickly rising sun outside; I feel the morning air that terrifies me to no end; I slide off my chair, and I slowly walk towards the door.

They sigh behind me, not wanting to let go. They know I’ll come back, I just need to gather myself a bit before I die completely, suffocating here; they know, but they will miss me. I will miss them.

I can barely tell whose thoughts these are anymore, to be honest.

I wave at them, not looking one last time, and I push the door and enter the streets, slowly filling with early office workers hurrying to their jobs. I breathe in.

I walk to the train station that won’t lead to Mementos anymore, and I feel tears stream down my face.

_I’ll be back,_ I promise them again as they ache at the edge of my mind. _I won’t forget._

The sound of train approaching grows loud as ever, and I drown in the void of railways and grey masses that have forgotten the word “loss”.

I breathe out.


End file.
